


Here, Though the World Explode, These Two Survive

by TheTyger



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reunion, Rings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-31 13:06:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTyger/pseuds/TheTyger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tomorrow, it would be three years from that day. Three years with no rude text messages, no experiments being conducted while London slept, no body parts in the fridge. And John still sometimes caught himself buying extra milk and looking for cases and making two coffees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Cinnamon1895, who's responsible for the end of the first chapter.
> 
> The titles are from this:
> 
> 221B
> 
> Here dwell together still two men of note
> 
> Who never lived and so can never die:
> 
> How very near they seem, yet how remote
> 
> That age before the world went all awry.
> 
> But still the game's afoot for those with ears
> 
> Attuned to catch the distant view-halloo:
> 
> England is England yet, for all our fears–
> 
> Only those things the heart believes are true.
> 
> A yellow fog swirls past the window-pane
> 
> As night descends upon this fabled street:
> 
> A lonely hansom splashes through the rain,
> 
> The ghostly gas lamps fail at twenty feet.
> 
> Here, though the world explode, these two survive,
> 
> And it is always eighteen ninety-five.
> 
> – Vincent Starrett

It was almost midnight when John gave up on sleeping. Rolling out of bed, he moved to the couch in the living room and curled up, breathing in the faint scent of Sherlock that still lingered there.

The skull stared at him from the mantel.

He stared back.

Tomorrow, it would be three years from that day. Three years with no rude text messages, no experiments being conducted while London slept, no body parts in the fridge. And John still sometimes caught himself buying extra milk and looking for cases and making two coffees.

There are nights he swore he could hear a violin playing.

Tea. Tea will help. The doctor hauled himself up and shuffled to the kitchen, leaning heavily on his cane. He heated water and dug out a teabag with shaking hands. Scalding hot drops danced over the rim of the cup. They burned. John dropped the cup, swearing viciously, letting the cane clatter to the floor. Pushing his fingers through his hair, he slowly backed away from the mess. Tears stung in his eyes as he exhaled heavily through his nose. Then he turned, and ran.

o

The streets were empty. Raindrops cut through the darkness, and streetlights shone like beacons only to succumb to the night in a few inches.

John ran, unable to see where he was going, wholly unable to care. Just to get away. For a second, he was back in Afghanistan. Gunshots and explosions echoed in his ears. Fiery light burned into his eyelids, obscuring his vision with stinging tears. Screams chased him, haunting, making him gasp and clutch at his ears.

He ran faster, desperate to get out...

Until he crashed into someone.

There was a slight grunt of surprise as willowy arms caught him, and suddenly he was staring into wide blue-green eyes and someone was murmuring his name in a voice that was shaking just as much as his own.

He didn't notice his fist clenching until the man was staggering backwards, a hand flying to the pain blossoming across his face, and then he was clinging to him, fingers digging into the dark coat, tears staining the material at the man's shoulder.

He was sobbing now, his knees buckled under him. They sank to the ground, still holding on for fear that the other would disappear again if they let go.

John felt a trembling hand move to cradle the back of his head, and a low voice humming, and a heartbeat sending vibrations through his chest, soothing him like a lullaby.

And just like the first day he'd met the consulting detective, he could feel a peaceful, safe feeling stealing through his heart, and the former army doctor felt his demons chased away by the angel before him- old demons from Afghanistan, new ones from the Fall. Sherlock saved him, just as he always has.

John knew he saved Sherlock too.

And so caught in this moment were the two that they never noticed the two beings sitting in an old black car on the corner of the street, shining with golden and infra-black light; no one saw one smiling softly at the other, who stared transfixed at the figures huddled together on the concrete with glassy serpentine eyes.

The detective and his doctor didn't see when the light one murmured something and pressed a gentle kiss to the darker one's cheek (darker, but not all black- for there is surely a speck of heavenly light left inside him), or when the two drove away at some point in the night, back to a dusty bookshop in Soho.

For Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson were together again, so everything was going to be alright. It doesn't matter anymore what games the spider plays, for these two shall always survive.

The detective and the doctor are together again, reunited under the cloudy London sky.


	2. Only Those Things the Heart Believes Are True

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The inscriptions on the rings are from Queen's Who Wants to Live Forever.

They sat unnoticed in the Bentley, watching the lonely figure standing like a statue in the rain. His tall form was silhouetted against the dusky streetlights behind him, long dark coat and scarf flapping and fluttering in the wind.

"I don't undersssstand," Crowley muttered, "Why would he do it?"

Aziraphale smiled gently, patiently. His counterpart had been asking the same question since that fateful day, when the great detective had fallen and Aziraphale was there to catch him. "For the people he loves, Crowley. To keep them safe. To keep John safe."

Crowley was a demon. By nature, he couldn't understand such feelings, such raw emotions. But he tried, always, and that was enough for Aziraphale.

"Angel-"

"Shh sh, look," the angel whispered. Crowley looked, and saw the former army doctor bolting down the street like the hounds of Hell were on his heels, straight into the taller man's arms.

He saw the detective reel back from the doctor's punch, before stumbling slightly as the man clung to him.

Crowley's eyes grew wide as they sunk to the pavement, lost in each other. Sherlock's hand moved, shaking, to gently cup the back of John's head. They shuddered together, never letting go. The demon was transfixed.

Aziraphale's eyes softened as he watched his love's reaction, his misty yellow eyes, mouth hanging slightly open in wonder, like a child's. "Do you see now, my dear?"

Crowley turned back to the angel at his gentle murmur, seeing grey-blue eyes and tartan and a halo glowing faintly with heavenly light.

"I think I do," he answered softly. Aziraphale smiled and brushed a kiss across his cheek.

They left soon after, knowing the detective and his blogger would be alright- they were together again, after all.

* * *

 

When they arrived at the bookshop, Crowley followed Aziraphale over the threshold, toying anxiously with something in his pocket. The angel glanced over, getting an eyeful of black suit and angular cheekbones and tousled dark hair and uncharacteristically nervous amber eyes. And then the demon was pushing something into his hand.

It was a ring box, small and covered in black velvet. Inside was a simple silver band, with a slight delicate, feathery design. The inscription around the inside was in tiny, beautiful lettering.

" _'And we can have forever'_... Oh, my _dear_..."

"I just, um... See if it fits. I suppose if it doesn't you could just mir-"

The angel shut him up with a palm cupping his cheek, and a breathtaking kiss. "My dear, you worry too much," he murmured.

He pulled back to see Crowley smiling ruefully at him, mischievous, affectionate eyes shining over top of his glasses. He took Aziraphale's hand and slid it onto his ring finger.

"Thank you. I'll never take it off. Oh-" the angel fumbled with his jacket, eventually extracting a box similar to Crowley's. "Here. I've had this for a while now. It was just...never a good time."

"I know the feeling, angel," the demon breathed. His ring was fairly simple, like the angel's, with a gracefully serpentine design. The inscription read, _'And we can love forever.'_

"I thought it was fitting," Aziraphale said, blushing slightly. "Do you like it?"

"I love it. _Thank you_."

And the angel knew he wasn't just talking about the ring.


End file.
